All Wrapped Up
by WRTRD
Summary: "What do you mean you didn't get me a present?" Set near Christmastime in Season 5, but Beckett has already moved in with Castle. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

At 12:01 a.m. on Thursday, November 1, 2012, when she's about five minutes into a blissful sleep, she feels Castle shaking her shoulder.

"Beckett! Kate!" He sounds so cheery, like a kid. "You know what this is?" When she doesn't answer, he shakes her shoulder again. "Know what this is?"

"Yes. It's annoying."

"How can it be annoying?"

He's squeezing her shoulder now, and dammit, she's fully awake. She rolls over and looks blearily at him. He's beaming. "Castle, we just had unbelievable post-Halloween-party sex. You wore me out and I thought that I did the same thing to you. I need to sleep." She kisses him on the nose and closes her eyes.

"No, no, no, I have to tell you what this is! It's the beginning of Christmas. I'm so excited."

"You were very excited half an hour ago, too, as I happily remember, but that had absolutely nothing to do with Christmas." She opens her eyes again. "What are you talking about, anyway? It's not even Thanksgiving yet. That's three weeks away. Christmas isn't for ages. Go to sleep."

"I can't go to sleep when I have to start mentally preparing for Christmas. I'm like this every November first."

She yawns noisily and pushes herself up on her elbows. "Are you telling me that I'll be going through this again next year? And the next?"

"And in two thousand fifty-two," he says patiently, as if he were explaining arithmetic to a first-grader. "And beyond. It's Christmas."

"No, it's November first, which is All Saints' Day. So be a saint and let me go back to sleep."

"Well, speaking of half an hour ago," he chuckles. "You were behaving in a decidedly unsaintly way then. And that's a compliment, not a complaint."

Beckett collapses onto her back again. "Oh, God, I guess I'll have to hear your explanation. And then please, please, may I go to sleep?"

He bounces, actually bounces, onto his knees. "On November first I start planning all the greens we'll need," he says, waving his arms. "Wreaths for the front door and the windows, a garland for the staircase, the trees."

"The trees? Plural?"

"Of course plural," he says, barely masking his horror. "We can't have just one tree. I mean, there's the ten-foot one we have in the living room, but all the bedrooms get a little one. And then I have to start thinking about the themes for the little ones."

She briefly wonders if she's imagining all this, or dreaming it. "You have themes for the trees?"

"Oh, you have so much to learn, Beckett. I really envy you. Naturally the main tree has no theme because it holds all the ornaments from my childhood and Alexis's. Even a few from my mother's."

"Naturally," she mumbles.

"But I get new things every year for the little trees. You know, a dog theme, an angel theme, elves, fairies, snowflakes, cars, birds, shoes, heavenly bodies—stars, planets, asteroids, moons, although now I'd have to include you in that grouping—cookies, mittens. One year I did my mother's tree in characters from Shakespeare. It was amazing."

"Right. Got it."

"Seriously, I don't know why you're surprised. I mean, Macy's starts planning for the next Thanksgiving Day parade the day after the last one happened. No rest for the weary."

"I'm very weary."

"I spend less than two months getting ready for Christmas. You should be glad that you're living with me and not the head of the Macy's parade."

"Delirious. You can tell me more in the morning. Night."

"Okay. You won't be sorry." He kisses her lightly. "Ho, ho, ho!"

Not enough hours later, when she's getting dressed and he's wearing nothing but a bath towel, he goes into their vast walk-in closet and gets a large box from the top shelf. "Here we go," he says, setting it on a chair.

"What's that?" she says from the end of the bed, where she's pulling on her boots.

"My Christmas underwear."

"You have Christmas underwear? Sorry, stupid question."

"Of course I do! Wait 'til you see. I have about sixty different pairs of holiday boxers." He lifts off the lid, begins looking through a neat stack, and stops. "Yeah. These are good for today. What do you think?" He shakes out a pair and holds them up to his chest. They're green and ask the red-lettered question, "IS IT CHRISTMAS YET?"

She laughs and topples dramatically sideways onto the bed. "Well, according to you, it is. Christmas begins November first."

"Now you're getting the spirit," he says, stepping into the shorts.

"Do you have a pair that says 'Jingle Balls'?"

"Why Beckett! Shameless." He looks primly at her. "No, I do not have a pair that says 'Jingle Balls'."

"I gotta go to work. You coming in later?"

"Yup, couple of hours. Unless you call with details of a disgusting homicide, in which case I'll be there instantly."

"Maybe there will be an impaled Saint somewhere, Castle."

"That'd be great!" He grabs her for a searing kiss before she can get out of the bedroom. "See ya."

After she's left, he sits at his laptop and creates a new spreadsheet for this year's Christmas projects. As he drinks his second mug of coffee, he stops to think about the conversation they'd had, first shortly after midnight, and then this morning. He knows that her association with Christmas is painful, because her mother was murdered early in January and the Becketts' house was still decorated for the holiday. By the next Christmas, her father had been all but dead to her, drowning in bottles of increasingly cheap booze. She and her father haven't celebrated it since.

So now he's on a one-man mission to give her back some of the joy of the holiday that he loves above all.

He allows himself a little fantasy—he allows himself a lot of fantasies when it comes to her. Some of them have been realized and in every case reality exceeded the fantasy. The one he's having at the moment is G-rated. Walt Disney himself would approve. Santa would approve. He's imagining Christmas cards in the future with a family photo of her and him and their baby. And a few years later them with a couple more kids. And a dog. Two dogs. A big one and a little one. Maybe they could all be in a snow fort they made. Or playing paintball.

If she could read his mind right now she'd run screaming into the street. At this point she'd probably be a lot more comfortable with his X-rated, decidedly unDisney-like fantasies than with this wonderful domestic one. But he has hopes. He has faith in the transformative power of Christmas. Yuletide. Noel. The greatest mood elevator he knows. He'll try to tamp down his enthusiasm a little so as not to overwhelm her.

On the 21st, the evening before Thanksgiving, they're in the kitchen making pies. "What are you putting on top of your pumpkin one?" he asks as he arranges slices of apples in a pastry-lined pan.

"On top? What do you mean, on top?"

"On top of the pumpkin, you know." It's a simple question, isn't it? Why does she look so confused?

"You mean a crust? Hell, no. Pumpkin pie is open-faced."

"No, no. You have to put some decorations on it."

"Decorations? I understand your Christmas obsession, Castle, but this is Thanksgiving. No decorations."

"Look, there's all this dough here." He jabs an elbow in the direction of a large ball of pastry dough that's sitting on a marble slab on top of the counter. "You can make little cut-outs of maple leaves and oak leaves or Pilgrim hats and arrange them on top of the pumpkin. They make a bland-looking surface of the pie very festive."

She dusts off her floury hands on a dish towel. "Are you kidding? Pilgrim hats?"

"It's not hard, Beckett. There's a cookie cutter right over there in the shape of a Pilgrim hat. Just roll out some dough and press the cutter on it several times. Bingo, Pilgrim hats."

"I do know how to wield a cookie cutter," she says, glaring. "I'm not completely incompetent in the kitchen."

He leans over and kisses her. "Of course you're not."

"So where's the _Mayflower_?"

"What?"

"You mean to tell me you that you, a self-described gourmet cook, don't have a cookie cutter of the _Mayflower_? It brought the freaking Pilgrims here. Wouldn't have Pilgrim hats without the ship."

She'd thought that would shut him up. Quite the opposite.

"I know a metalworker! A metalworker in Queens!"His cheeks are already getting pink. "If I email him an image of the _Mayflower_ right this minute maybe he could make a cookie cutter of it tonight? How hard could it be, right? The guy's an artisan. An artisan. And I'll pay whatever he wants."

Before she can recover sufficiently to discuss this lunatic idea with him, he has run to his office to set the plan in motion. By the time she joins him in there he's already sent an email and is waiting for a reply.

"Look!" he shouts, pointing at the screen. "He's answering me." He clicks on the message and fist pumps. "Yes! He can! He can do it. You're a genius, Kate. Want to come with me? He says I can pick it up in four hours. You'll love him. I call him the Tinsmith of Tudor Village. That's his neighborhood in Queens. See, it's even like there's a connection! Tudor Village. The British monarchy. The Tudors were on the throne not long before the Mayflower sailed."

"I thought Tudor Village was an Italian-American neighborhood, Castle."

"Well, yeah, Frankie is, but still."

He calms down enough to finish the apple pie, which they bake. They refrigerate the pumpkin one, waiting to sail a pastry _Mayflower_ on it first thing tomorrow morning.

She declines his invitation to drive to Queens, and is reading in bed at midnight when Castle gets home, clutching his Pilgrim ship.

"How cool is this?" he asks, handing it to her with a flourish.

She has to admit it's good. "Very cute."

"Not just cute, Beckett. It's historic. It brings a whole new dimension to pumpkin pie. I'm going to have to rethink our Christmas cookies now. Get Frankie to make some new cutters for me, things no one has seen." He places his new prize tenderly on his night table.

She watches him get undressed. While he's in the bathroom brushing his teeth she thinks about Christmas for at least the fiftieth time in three weeks. She knows how hard he's trying not to swamp her with the holiday, and she knows how much it means to him. She's trying, too, trying to throw herself into things with enthusiasm, but it's not always easy. Infectious as his joy is, this is still hard for her. One thing in particular has been bothering her, and she needs to say something before Thanksgiving is over and he goes full-tilt into Christmas. But when he turns off the bathroom light and walks towards the bed, she decides the conversation can wait. He looks way too adorable right now, in a plain white tee shirt and today's special boxers, which feature ribboned packages and the instruction "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS."

"I dunno about those shorts," she says, and crawls on top of him. "Does that mean no sex for the next five weeks? I don't think I could stand it."

"Noooo. No, that is not what they mean."

"Thank goodness," she says, slipping her hand through the opening and winding her fingers around him. "So it's all right if I do this?"

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Oh, what she did was more than all right. Everything she did for the next however-long-it-was passed all right in the fast lane to perfect. More like beyond perfect. "May I ask you something personal, Kate?" he says afterwards, when she's curled against him, her head on his shoulder. "It's sexual."

"Considering that we're living together, and considering what we just did? I think you may."

Her breath against his skin is tantalizing. "You're so comfortable with your sexuality."

"So are you."

"True. Do you remember not long after we got together I wanted to do reverse cowgirl?"

"Yeah."

"And you—we—did."

"Yeah."

It feels as though she's tensing a little. "You said it felt fantastic."

"Yeah."

Huh. If all she's saying is "yeah," something's definitely bothering her. "Well, a few times since then I've tried to steer things that way and you've always taken another tack. What we did just now was a hell of a lot more adventurous, you know? So I'm just wondering if there was a problem with reverse cowgirl? If you're uncomfortable with something you'd say, wouldn't you?"

"It's stupid."

"Nothing you have to say is stupid. Especially about that."

"I could tell you loved it."

"So?"

"Okay, this isn't easy to say. It's—you know, in the past, I really liked it."

"In the past meaning with someone before me."

"Yeah."

"I do know that you had sex with guys before me, Beckett."

"Still."

"Go on."

"It did feel fantastic, Castle." She moves up so that she can look at him while she says this. "Best ever. Physically fantastic, but not emotionally."

He's puzzled. "Not emotionally? I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"For some reason in that position, even though I'm very flexible, I can't turn my head in a way that I'm able to see you, especially with you almost on your back. And no, I don't want to use a mirror. I really can't see your face at all, and I hate not being able to see at least some of your face when we're having sex. Especially your eyes."

Wow. "There must be other positions that are impossible—"

"Nope, that's the only one, because there's another reason, too. There's almost no body contact, aside from the obvious, and I want a lot of your skin on my skin." She pauses, takes a deep breath and asks tentatively, "Do you mind that I don't want to do reverse cowgirl, since you love it?"

"Are you kidding?" He kisses her neck, which is arched towards him. "Because you want to look at me? Because you want to have a lot of my skin on your skin? Why would I mind?"

She doesn't answer and he doesn't want to prod her, so he waits.

"I love sex, you know that. But until six months ago I didn't care all that much about eye contact, total body contact." She pauses again and moves a little higher on his chest. "But sex with you is unlike what I've experienced before. It's completely different. It's not just that it's fun and exciting and imaginative and passionate. It's that before you it was never truly intimate. I was afraid of it, of intimacy, and now I'm not. And I've never loved anyone the way I love you."

Now he's the one who's quiet, and she waits for him. "Kate," he whispers. "That is the greatest Christmas present I've ever gotten. Ever."

"Thank you," she whispers in return.

A few minutes later, when she thinks he he might be drifting off to sleep, she says, "Castle?"

"Mmhmm."

"Speaking of Christmas."

That's Pavlov's bell to him, and he's one hundred percent awake. "Yes?"

"I have to ask you a favor."

"Anything."

"You're not going to like it."

"I doubt that, but go ahead."

"Could we agree. Um, could be agree not to exchange presents? Just us, not your mother or Alexis or my father. I know that present-giving is one of your favorite things and you excel at it, you always get the perfect thing, but this is our first year. It's too stressful this first year. At least for me."

He hopes that she can't feel his heart crumpling beneath her. It's a wonder it's still beating. No presents? He can't give her any presents? He's already started buying them. All right. He'll put them away for another time. He can give her this. She's been a real trooper about everything else. He takes a moment to make sure he can speak in a properly light and accepting tone of voice. "Sure, we can do that. Absolutely. I understand. How about stockings though? Can I give you a stocking? I mean, can Santa?"

"Okay, but I'm writing him a letter to tell him that nothing in there can cost more than ten dollars."

"Geez, you drive a hard bargain."

"You drive pretty hard yourself." She laughs and slithers off him. "Good night, Castle."

"Hell of a good-night line, Beckett."

"I try."

On Sunday afternoon, all Thanksgiving leftovers having been consumed, he carries two cups coffee to the living room where she's reading on the sofa. "So," he says, rubbing his hands together after depositing the coffee on the table. "Time for me to get cracking. It's the twenty-fifth, exactly one month until Christmas. Wanna help with the lights?"

She looks up from her book. "What, put them up? Sure? I mean where? Around the door?"

"No, no. We have to _choose_ the lights for this year. For all over."

"I'm guessing we can't just go get some?"

"Correct. We have to decide whether we want white ones or colored ones. Or a color scheme. Or several schemes. Blinking or not blinking? Old-fashioned or LED? Fairy lights? Twinkling? Bubbling? What sizes? How bright?"

"Don't you already have them?"

"Of course, but we might want something different. The world of Christmas lights is constantly evolving, you know. Things that were unimaginable a year ago could be available now."

"Too bad Darwin's not still alive," she says drily. "He'd be very interested in this aspect of evolution."

"Are you making a mockery of lights?"

"Certainly not."

"That's a relief. Darwin would be fascinated, Beckett. I bet even he couldn't have foreseen it, since he died only two years after the introduction of the long-life light bulb."

She's constantly surprised at the breadth of his knowledge, but this really is pretty astonishing. "How do you even know that?"

"Well, Thomas Edison got that patent in 1880 and Darwin died in 1882, so it's basic math." He shrugs. "Two years."

Not at all what she meant, but she'll leave it. This is one of those moments she'll tuck in her memory, and bring out to consider and to smile about. Tell their kids, "Listen to this. Daddy knows everything." Wait, what? No. Kids? "Um, sure. I'll help. We can look at what you have already and then make a list."

"I know what we have already. Everything's inventoried in my computer."

"Of course it is. But have you tested them to see if they all work?"

"Good point."

And so they go to his storage unit in the basement, bring up the boxes—many, many boxes, each with a label describing in minute detail what's inside—and plug in every single string of lights. After that they hit the stores. The enterprise takes six hours. "I need a drink," she says when she comes through the door and collapses onto the nearest chair.

"You don't want to start hanging them?" he asks, trying not to be disappointed.

"Maybe tomorrow night, after work?"

"That's fine. Tomorrow is fine."

Except he's always put up the lights the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Compromise, he tell himself. One day late won't be bad. They have dinner, finishing with a few Mayflower gingerbread cookies that he was ecstatic to have found in the fridge—ones he'd made on the spur of the moment an hour before the turkey had to go in the oven on Thursday. "Ooh, these remind me. I have to start thinking about Christmas cookie containers."

"We have about a hundred of those Glad storage thingies in one of the bottom cupboards."

"Oh, no. These are cookies that I make as presents. You can't give them in something like that. No, I have to decide what kind I want to use this year: bags, tins, or boxes."

She leans across the kitchen island until their noses are almost touching. "I don't know why you don't start working on Christmas on October first, Castle."

"Oh, I couldn't!" His hand has involuntarily covered his heart. "I need October to get ready for Hallowe'en."

"Right. Where was my brain?"

A few days later she gets out of bed and he doesn't stir. He'd been up late writing, and she doesn't want to wake him. She creeps out of their bedroom and goes upstairs to shower; since Alexis is living in the Columbia dorm, her bathroom is almost always empty. Later, when she's dressed for work and standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee and scanning the front page of _The Times_ , she hears footsteps. It's Castle, looking half-asleep as he wanders in and points to the coffee pot.

"Could you just pour that directly into my mouth, please?"

"It'll burn your tongue."

"Don't care."

"I do. I love your tongue."

"Way to wake a guy up," he says, kissing her on the lips taking the mug from her hand. "Thank you," he adds after a healthy gulp.

He's wearing boxers that are covered in reindeer with candy-cane-striped umbrellas on their antlers. "I like your shorts," she says.

"Raining reindeer? Me, too. Probably in my top ten." He takes another gulp. "You know I'm not coming in today, right? Gotta finish that chapter."

"I do. That's fine. I'll see you tonight."

"If there's a body drop, you'll call me, won't you?"

"Sure. Especially if it's death by sharpened candy cane."

"Ooh, that would be good. Do you think anyone's ever done that?"

"Dunno, Castle. Maybe you could research it. Gotta run."

In the car to the precinct she realizes how foolish her suggestion had been. He's probably researching candy-cane murders right now. Off and on throughout the day, which is mercifully quiet, she thinks about his holiday boxers. She hasn't admitted it to him, but she looks forward every day to the parade of Christmas underwear. Maybe she could reciprocate, just a little? It's worth checking out. On the way home she stops in her favorite lingerie shop and finds a small section that a sign identifies as "seasonal attire." She homes in on a pair of white bikinis trimmed in red lace. If underwear could talk, she says to herself, they'd be screaming, "Buy me! Buy me!" The saleswoman wraps them in tissue paper and nestles them in a tiny bag. "Thank you," Kate says, wishing that it were already bedtime.

When Castle says he's too tired to cook, she suggests ordering in.

"How about trying the new little Australian place around the corner?"

"There's an Australian restaurant in the neighborhood? What's the menu like?"

"I have no idea. As long as it's not kangaroo or koala, I'm fine with it."

They go, happily eat salt-and-pepper squid, washed down with Australian beer, and walk home as fast as possible in sleet that had not been forecast. "I'm freezing," she says as she hangs up her wet coat. "Want to warm up in the tub with me?"

"Were Donner and Blitzen originally known as Dunder and Blixem?"

Another thing to tell their kids: "Daddy knows what Santa's reindeer names used to be." She bites her lip. "I take it that's a yes, Castle?"

"Yes. A definite yes. An invitation to bathe with you always merits a yes."

One deliciously scented bubble bath and a little bit of fooling around later, she dawdles so that when he's in bed she can make an entrance from the bathroom. "You all through in here?" she calls, knowing that he is but wanting to make sure that he looks her way.

"Yup. All done."

She turns off the light and sashays into their room, dressed in a tiny silk camisole and her new seasonally-appropriate bikinis. Written across the front in bright green script is the offer: HELP YOURSELF, SANTA.

"Thought I might get some Christmas underwear, too," she says, standing by her side of the bed, right hip jutting out. "Whatcha think, Santa?"

"Oh," he says, eyes dancing. "I thought I was full after all that shrimp, but I was wrong. Are you dessert?"

"I am. Help yourself."

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you all for the lovely response to the first chapter. It's way too early for Christmas, but ….


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It's December fourth. There's only so much self-control a holidayaholic can exercise, and Castle can't hold off on the little trees any longer. At four this morning, while Kate is asleep, he drives to his favorite tree lot. The owner lives in Norway 45 weeks of the year; for the other seven he's in lower Manhattan, selling all kinds of holiday greenery around the clock.

This early in the day Castle has no problem finding a parking spot nearby. When he enters the lot, he sees the man who has been his friend since Alexis was a toddler. "Hi, Mathias," Castle says, giving him a hug. "Welcome back."

"Rick! Hey, great to see you. How's your family?"

"Fine, thanks. Alexis is a freshman in college. She's uptown at Columbia, but she might as well be in Ålesund with you for all I see her. Your family doing well?"

"Yes, everyone. You must be feeling a little lonely then. What do you call it here, empty nest?"

Castle's entire face is a grin. "Um, about that. Not so lonely after all. My girlfriend moved in with me a few months ago."

"Wow, fast work," Mathias says. "Last Christmas you were moping around like a polar bear with no ice." He laughs when his favorite customer starts bouncing on the toes of his bright red sneakers.

"Well."

"Oh, don't tell me. Nikki, I mean Kate, Kate Beckett. Is it Kate?"

"Yeah. Finally! I've been in love with her forever."

"I could tell."

Castle gasps in the cold, pre-dawn air. "You could? I thought I hid it really well."

Mathias pierces him with his light blue eyes. "You kidding? That was the worst secret ever. Every time I see you, saw you, the last couple of years you talked about her all the time. But congratulations. It must be serious if you're living together?"

"Very serious. I've never been so happily serious in my life. So, I'm here for the three little trees. Next week I'll be back for the big one."

"Do I get to meet her?" Mathias rubs his gloved hands together. "Why didn't you bring her with you today?"

"Long story, but she hasn't celebrated Christmas in ages."

"And she's living with _you_? Is she cuckoo?"

"I know. But I'm bringing her around to the idea. Baby steps."

"Baby steps? I've seen your place at Christmas, Rick. No, that's like a giant leap for her, right?"

"I've been building up slowly."

Mathias laughs so hard he's stamping his feet. "Sure."

"Hey, you know what? You just rolled your eyes exactly the way Kate does. You done laughing at me now?"

"Yes. All done." He puts his arm around Castle's shoulder. "Let's get you some trees."

Shortly after five he's walking in to the loft with a trio of perfect little balsams, which he carries upstairs to store in Alexis's bathroom. He goes back down humming "Frosty the Snowman," and hangs up his coat. "Time for coffee, Frosty," he says, as he takes out a bag of beans from the fridge.

"Frosty, huh?" a voice from behind him asks. "He your imaginary playmate this morning, Castle?"

"Geez, Beckett, you scared the pants off me."

"I did? Looks like they're still on to me." She walks into the kitchen, pulls on his belt and gives him a kiss. "Hey, you been out? Your face is cold."

"It is? Oh, yeah. I had a hankering for pastries and I thought they'd be open, the bakery, but turns out it's too early."

She looks at him sniffs. "Hmm." She sniffs again.

"Are you getting a cold?"

"Nope. I just smell fish. A fish story." She purses her lips and pushes them in and out.

"Excellent goldfish imitation. You want something to eat with your coffee? English muffin, maybe, since we don't have any pastries?"

"Stop trying to redirect this conversation, Castle. You didn't go out for pastries. Biggest fish story I've heard in a while."

"Okay, I confess. Put me under lox and key. That's good, isn't it? Lox? Fish story?"

"Yes, very good. But you're still redirecting. You gonna tell me where you really went?"

He sighs. "It's a surprise. I know you hate surprises, but there have to be some at Christmas."

"We said no presents, Castle. You promised."

"It's not a present. Just a little surprise, I swear." He passes her a mug. "Here, drink your coffee and I'll toast you a muffin."

"A toasted stud muffin," she mutters, sitting on a stool at the counter.

"I heard that. Stud muffin? I am. You're pretty gorgeous yourself. Listen, if we're not busy at the precinct today, do you mind if I leave a bit early?"

"This wouldn't have anything to do with the pastry-less surprise, would it?"

"It would. I just need a couple of hours."

In mid afternoon, since they're just mopping up the last bits of a case and can do without Castle, he goes home. He does the tree for his mother's bedroom first, setting it in a stand, putting it in a good place, then slipping costume-jewelry bracelets over the ends of several branches. The rhinestone ones give the fir sparkle; the red, blue, pink, orange, turquoise, white, green, purple, yellow, and striped bangles supply the color.

Alexis's is next. He has spent the six months since her high-school graduation tracking down small items related to Columbia University, most embossed with its logo. There are, among other things, a miniature sky-blue felt pennant from 1955; two handmade ornaments of the college's lion mascot that he bought on Etsy; a baby rattle that he hopes doesn't give her Any Ideas; a refrigerator magnet; a spoon; a fountain pen, and an old Zippo lighter. He's confident that he's safe with that one because she hates smoking.

He's saved the tree for the master bedroom last. He's nervous because this is the first Christmas thing he's undertaken that specifically involves Kate, is specifically for her. It takes him a long time to decorate the three-footer because he keeps moving everything around. He's only just finished when he hears the front door shut.

"Castle?" she calls as she unzips her boots.

"Hi," he says, coming through his office into the living room.

"What did you get up to after you left?"

"Up to? What do you mean?"

She grins and wiggles her fingers at him. "Aha! That was just a turn of phrase, but your answer makes me think that your real, unexpressed answer is 'no good.' That you were up to no good. Were you?"

"I'll have you know that I was up to lots of things, Beckett, all of them good. If you don't believe me, I'll show you." He has caught up to her, and draws her tight against his chest. Then he tilts up her chin and gives her a very long, very deep, very deliberately provocative kiss. "There," he says, pleased to note the rapid pulse in her neck and her very pink cheeks. "See? Wasn't that good?"

"That better not be what you've been doing all afternoon, Castle. Kissing someone like that when the someone wasn't me."

"Not a chance. You've ruined me." Another bit of restraint falls to the floor when he says, "C'mon, let me show you," grabs her hand, and starts walking up the stairs. When they get to Martha's room he swings open the door, points to the tree, and says, "Ta da!"

She walks over and carefully examines the bracelets, touching some, tilting them this way and that, and smiling. "This is wonderful. Castle. What a charming idea." She squeezes his hand. "Disarming, even."

That gets her a laugh. "Ooh, good one. Very quick, Detective. I bow to you."

"Thank you."

"Want to see Alexis's?"

"Of course."

They walk down the hall and he flicks on the overhead light in his daughter's room. The tree, which already smells deliciously balsamy, is on a footstool in front of one of the windows. "Oh, Castle," Beckett says as she looks it over. "She's going to love this."

"You don't think it's too corny?"

"How can it be too corny? It's Christmas."

He can hardly believe that he heard her right. "How can it be too corny? It's Christmas." She'd really said it. She's opened up to the holiday, at least that much. "Um, ready for yours, Kate?" he asks.

"Can't wait. Never had my very own personal tree."

What if she thinks it's dopey? Or? He doesn't know what or could be, just that he's anxious. He takes her hand again and walks with her to their room.

He'd put the tree between her nightstand and a chair so that she could see it if she's in bed or if she's sitting in the chair where she often puts on her shoes or boots, and sometimes reads. He's left a lamp on so the tree is in a pool of light. "Here you go."

The first thing she sees is the toy police car with NYPD on the side in blue letters. After that a little plush tiger, which he's hung next to a pair of pewter handcuffs. They're about the size of a quarter, and dangle from a red satin ribbon. "Nice juxtaposition," she says. "Only this tiger looks very sweet. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

So far, so good, he thinks.

"Oh Castle," she says tenderly, as she removes a tiny silver frame in which there's a photo that shows nothing but a pair of dark eyes. She puts the loop around around her finger. "That's you."

"It is. Because I only have eyes for you."

She returns it to the branch and looks carefully at the tree again. There's a red poker chip and a set of seven 2012 Metropolitan Museum shoe ornaments. Then she spies a key chain of a miniature New York license plate that says KATE. It also holds a key that she doesn't recognize, and she looks questioningly at him. "What's this?"

"You should flip it over. There's something written on the back."

Sure enough, there it is, in his precise handwriting, "For the key to my heart. And the Ferrari."

"Really?"

That sounded like a squeal. He's never heard her squeal.

"You're gonna let me drive it?"

"Yup."

"Whenever I want?"

"Yup."

She puts that back on the tree, too, and turns to the rest: two blown-glass ornaments, one of a coffee mug and the other of the façade of the New York Public Library, and one last thing. She has to bend over to see it properly: it's a silver charm of a calendar page that says MARCH 9. "Oh," she says, her eyes filling up.

"It's the day we met."

"I know it is," she says, her hand at her lips. "This is a tree about us."

"I was afraid you might think some of it was sappy."

"No such thing, Castle. Not at Christmas." She turns around and buries her face in his shirt. "Thank you. I love it."

"You're welcome," he says, happy to hold on to her like this for as long as she likes.

It's only after dinner, when they're watching television, that she realizes that she hasn't yet seen his holiday underwear du jour. He was already dressed when she got up, and she'd missed them. "You must be exhausted," she says, pressing her hand against his knee. "What time did you go out for the trees?"

"Four." He yawns. Power of suggestion, he thinks.

"Let's go to bed, then."

"It's not even ten."

"Well, I'll read, and you can go to sleep." But not before I get to see your boxers, she doesn't say.

She's getting undressed in the bedroom and can hear the rustle of his clothes landing in the bathroom hamper, followed by the whirr of his electric toothbrush. She dawdles so she can get the full effect when he comes back out.

And here he is, in a tee shirt and white shorts. This pair has only one print, a large one of Santa and the reindeer parked on the roof of a house. Rudolph has turned his head towards his boss, who's laughing; the balloon over the red-nosed reindeer's head says YOU SLEIGH ME!

For some inexplicable reason, this sets her off. She laughs so hard that she has to sit down, and Castle has no idea why.

"Kate? What's so funny?"

"You, Castle," she eventually manages to say. "You sleigh me. You do." She squeezes his shoulder on her way to the bathroom. Several times while she's brushing her teeth she has to stop: she's still laughing and doesn't want to choke on the toothpaste.

"You sound happy," he says when she gets into bed.

"I am."

"I'm glad."

"Me, too. Now go to sleep."

A few minutes later he does. And he looks happy, too.

She shuts her book, sets it on the nightstand, and looks at her tree. The silver frame with the photo of his eyes is catching the light, and it's as though he's winking at her. Keeping watch over her. A year or two ago it would have creeped her out, but not any more. Now she loves it. She turns out the light and slides all the way under the covers, rolling onto her left side so she can see him. She wants to make him something, too. She'd made him promise that they wouldn't give each other presents, but that doesn't mean she can't make him something, something for before Christmas. Something that lets him know that she's beginning to understand his love for the holiday. Maybe something will come to her in a dream. Something—she opens her eyes wide. She's got it! She's got it! She hopes he didn't hear her giggle.

TBC

 **A/N** To all those who are reading, reviewing, following and/or favoriting, thank you. It fills me with pre-holiday joy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Kate Beckett may not be a writer, but she has a very good imagination. She's exercising it on her lunch hour—more like lunch half hour—as she walks rapidly through the aisles of Brooks Brothers. She's managed to out run an overzealous young salesman and when she sees exactly what she needs just ahead of her she snags it and heads for the cashier. The OYS intercepts her and asks if he can show her anything. "No, thank you," she says politely, but he persists. Stands right in her way. One steely glance from her sends him the other direction, just as she'd hoped. Please! She has no time for this.

She tucks the little bag inside her own bag, away from prying eyes, especially her favorite pair of blue ones. No, they cannot, he cannot, see this yet. On her way back to work she tackles her other problem: how to get the project done. She and Castle spend almost every waking and sleeping minute together, and she needs time to herself. Hell, it's not going to happen, not before Christmas. She's still mulling it over in the precinct elevator, and when she steps off into the bullpen inspiration strikes. The ladies room! He can't go in there. OK, he had on that appalling day two years ago when he caught her trying to find the vaunted sex scene in _Heat Wave_ , but he's learned his lesson. All she needs is a few minutes here, a few minutes there. The precinct ladies room is the perfect venue. She smiles in satisfaction and flexes her fingers. Oh, yes, she's going to need nimble fingers for this.

When she goes to the ladies room at 3:00 she's pleased to find it empty. The last stall in the row is best. She takes out her lunchtime purchase—a pair of fine white cotton boxers—and a small drawstring bag from which she extracts a pencil, a small wooden hoop, a needle, and several strands of embroidery thread. Quickly but carefully she draws something on the front of the boxers, and then secures a portion of it inside the hoop. A check of her father's watch tells her that she's got two minutes to get this going. She threads the needle with a red strand and begins. Surprised by how easily embroidering has come back to her, she silently blesses her sainted grandmother for forcing her to learn some needle-and-thread skills.

"I'm not trying to turn you into a seamstress, Katie," she'd told her recalcitrant nine-year-old granddaughter. "Who knows, you could grow up to be a surgeon and sew people up for a living. You'll be glad I taught you this."

"Oh, Granny," Kate murmurs. "If you only knew what I was doing." She hopes Granny is not whirling in her grave at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn. Hopes she might be tickled instead.

Two minutes are up. She puts everything back in her bag, washes her hands noisily in case someone's right outside the door, and returns to her desk, almost giddy with the progress she's already made.

At home that evening she asks casually, "Do we have and red and green marshmallows, Castle?"

"It pains me to say this, but there is no such thing. Pink and green, yes, but they're Eastery looking. Very pale colors."

"I think I saw some." This is a lie. Forgive me, God, she thinks.

He's already up and out of his chair. "Where? Why didn't you buy them?"

"I was in a hurry. They just kind of registered on my retina when I was passing the store. But I thought they were a cute idea."

"What store?"

"Hmm. That candy place on Rivington."

"Beckett, it's not 'that candy place.' It's Economy Candy. A temple. A shrine. A holy place of sweets. I'm going there. Right now."

She feels guilty when she sees how excited he is, but her guilt is mitigated a good deal by the knowledge that even though he'll come home without the fictitious marshmallows, he'll find all sorts of other things things to make him happy. She also figures that this will give her half at least half an hour to work on her embroidery.

He runs out the door. She runs to get her bag. As she stitches she's grateful not just for her sewing lessons but for her less laudable adroitness in forgery. In her semi-delinquent phase during high school she'd signed her mother or father's name to a variety of notes. Now she's sewing a damn good facsimile of Castle's handwriting onto underwear. Who knew? She finishes the first word, JINGLE, in red thread and has made half a B in green when she hears a key turn in the front door, her signal to shove the work in progress back in her bag. She's halfway to the living room, ready to tell Castle how sorry she is that there were no Christmas-color marshmallows, when she sees him holding up a bag and shaking it enthusiastically.

"Kate! I can't believe you found these."

Huh? "What?"

"The marshmallows."

"Right."

"They're not ordinary marshmallow shape, either. You didn't tell me that the green ones are trees and the red ones are stars. This is beyond outstanding."

"Wow. Great." Thank you, God. It occurs to her that she's been doing a lot of praying today.

Two days later she's aware that her almost feverish excitement about Castle's holiday-themed underwear has escalated as she's been sewing her project. She can hardly wait to see what he's going to wear, and she puts a lot of effort into appearing to have only a casual interest. This morning she's finishing her makeup when he strolls into the bathroom in today's choice.

"Whatcha got on those shorts?" she asks off-handedly.

"Oh," he says, glancing down. "You might like these. There's grammar involved."

"Turn around so I can get the full effect." He does, and she sees that they feature a family portrait of Santa and his wife holding their heretofore unknown children on their laps. All of them are wearing red hats with white pom-pons; underneath the kids are the words DEPENDANT CLAUSES. "Nice," she says, and pats him on the butt.

Nice. Nice. Hmm. She needs to check on something. Do a quick internet search. Quick is right. In two minutes she not only finds what she's looking for but where she can get it, right in Manhattan. She might have to go there in disguise, though. Doesn't want anyone she knows seeing her.

The day is frustrating and the case they've caught is particularly unpleasant—the victim was stabbed three times and shot four before someone stuffed him into an oversized suitcase. At least a week ago. At seven o'clock Gates tells them to go home and they're all eager to rid themselves, at least until tomorrow, of the bad taste and the even worse smell of the case.

"I have to run an errand," Beckett tells Castle on their way out. "You go home without me."

"I'll come with you," he offers.

"No, this is a girly thing. You're not allowed."

He looks crushed. "All right, then. I'll just start drinking the incredibly expensive bottle of wine I have on hand without you."

"Not going to take me that long," she says and squeezes his hand. "Girly thing." Another lie, but for good reason. Surprise!

She'd put a woolly hat and an enormous pair of sunglasses in her bag before leaving the loft this morning. When she gets out of the subway at 34th and 8th she puts them both on and starts walking to her destination, which is six blocks away. She winces as she sees the blinking orange neon sign over the door, but puts on a bland expression as she steps inside the Tricks of the Trade. Adopting a Russian accent that Castle has clamored for since he first heard her use it at a Russian mob poker game three years ago, she tells the man at the front counter what she wants. He looks her over in what might politely be called an unsavory manner before going to get the merchandise. When his back is turned she shudders; when she pays—cash—he strokes her palm, tickling it with his grubby fingernails, as he gives her her change. Agggh. This had better be worth it, she tells herself.

After dinner, while Castle is making coffee, she takes a quick shower. After drying off she puts on her Tricks of the Trade purchases, but covers herself up with her floor-length robe and fuzzy slippers.

"Thanks for the coffee," she says a quarter of an hour later, shivering a little and snuggling up to him on the sofa.

"You still cold, Kate?"

"Yeah, even though I took that shower."

"You're not coming down with anything, are you?"

"No, no. I feel fine. Just need some warming up."

"That happens to be one of my specialities."

"So I've heard," she says, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Would you care for a demonstration? On the house, of course."

"I was hoping for on the bed."

"That could be arranged. Come right this way, please." He takes her hand, pulls her to her feet, and with his arm wrapped tightly around her shoulder walks them to the bedroom.

"Why don't you get comfy," she purrs. "I just have to duck into the bathroom." She closes the door, sheds the robe and slippers, and retrieves her highest-heeled, black-satin shoes from the cabinet where she'd hidden them behind a stack of towels. She applies some vivid red lipstick and checks the mirror before cracking open the door to see where he is. Ah, propped up in bed wearing nothing but those adorable "dependant clauses" boxers. They'll be off in no time. His (G-rated) underwear is not an appropriate match for hers.

"Hi, Castle," she says, strutting towards the bed. The shoes she has on encourage strutting.

His mouth falls open and he looks her up and down. Twice. "Oh, my God."

"You like it?" Her voice is as sultry as he's ever heard.

"No. No. No, I love it."

She's wearing sheer black stockings that say NICE in large letters, the NI falling above the knee and the CE below it. "So," she says, running a hand down her thigh. "Which do you prefer? Nice? Or—" she snaps the black lace garter belt that says NAUGHTY in the same lettering as the stockings. She's wearing nothing else. "Maybe you like naughty?"

"I think I like both," he says, swiping a hand across his chin because he's pretty sure that he just drooled. "I'll have to try both. So I can make an informed decision."

She gets on to the bed and straddles him. "I believe—and please correct me if I'm wrong—that you asked me a little while ago if I were coming down with something?"

"I did ask that."

"I wasn't sure if I'd heard you correctly. I thought maybe you asked if was going down on something." She stares at the hard-to-miss bulge in his boxers. "Because I think I see something that I like."

"You do, huh? Because I do, too." He looks down at her. "It's at the intersection of Naughty and Nice."

"Well," she says, leaning forward until her breasts are pressed hard against his bare chest, "you'd better get busy, then. Before there's any, you know, traffic."

"You gonna calls the cops?"

"I am the cops."

"Perfect."

TBC

 **A/N** She'll finish embroidering those boxers in the next chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** There's a little side trip into M territory in this chapter. If you want to skip it—I promise you will miss no plot points—stop reading at "My turn, Kate" and resume at "Eventually they recover."

It's almost nine on Saturday morning. "I'm going out for a run," Kate says, appearing in the kitchen in leggings, sneakers, and a fleece jacket.

"But it's so cold," her partner-in-every-way says, holding a flour sifter in one hand and a large wooden spoon in the other.

"I love to run in this weather. That's the reason I'm going." No, it's not. Liar, liar. She hopes her leggings are fireproof.

"When you come back you can have a cookie. A lot of cookies."

"You trying to fatten me up, Castle?"

"No. You're perfect. Besides, I know you. You'll never gain an ounce."

She squeezes his cheeks. "Atta boy!" And then she kisses him. "That's the answer I wanted."

"The only time you'll have any extra padding on you is when you're preg—" Oh, shit. How had he said that? Even though it's true. Even though he dreams of her being pregnant. He has lots of dreams of that, ever since she agreed to move in.

She's frozen in place, and her eyes are huge. "Castle?"

"Um."

"You're dripping butter onto the floor from that spoon. See ya."

And now she runs. She runs to the elevator but decides to run down the stairs instead. She's not running because of what he said. She's not. Really. She's not. It's just that she can't wait to get to the craft store, which opens in three minutes—about the length of time it will take her to walk there. If she runs she can make it in under two. She'd told Castle that she was going out for a run, so she she's running. She didn't say how far, so it's not a fib, exactly. She finished the embroidery this morning while he was showering, and she's pleased with it. All she needs now is the trim, which is the point of her craft store visit.

She finds exactly what she needs almost as soon as she walks in.

"These are nice ones," the cashier says, ringing up the sale. "Are you decorating your kids' stockings?"

Kate's red cheeks are not the result of her two-minute dash in twenty-two degree weather. "No. Not yet. Thank you." Not yet? Not YET? Maybe she'll go for that run, after all. She shoves the small bag in her jacket pocket and takes off.

Notyetnotyetnotyetnotyet. It's on a loop in her head as she makes a loop around Battery Park.

When she comes through the door the smell of gingerbread cookies puts her back in the kitchen with her mother. She follows her nose to the kitchen, where baking racks are already filling up with edible trees, wreaths, Santas, snowflakes, stars and what looks like—what is—an NYPD car, except that Castle has frosted it red and green instead of blue and white. She picks it up. "Did you make this with one of the new cookie cutters from the Tinsmith of Tudor Village?"

"I did! Didn't he do a great job?" She's back! Not that he'd thought she wouldn't be. Maybe a little bit of his doubting, terrified mind had. Definitely had, after what he'd said before she ran out.

"He did," she says, biting off the trunk and front wheels of the gingerbread squad car. "So did you. This is delicious."

"Thank you."

"Gonna take a shower. I'm all sweaty."

"I love you being sweaty."

"I know you do, but I don't, at least not this way. Maybe I can get sweaty again later. For you." She pops the rest of the cookie in her mouth and sashays towards their room.

"Breakfast will be ready when you're done," he calls out to her.

"Thanks."

She showers quickly because she wants to sew the trim on the boxers, which have been nestling in a stack of tee shirts in her chest of drawers. Perched on the hamper, she sews the trim on quickly, wraps the boxers in some tissue paper, and returns them to their hiding place. "There," she says as she closes the drawer.

On her way to the kitchen, she stops short. There's something about seeing him in his apron—Cookie Monster in a Santa hat—and the memories of her mother baking at Christmas that push her to make a decision.

"You got something in the oven, Castle?" she asks as she plops onto a stool at the counter.

"What?"

"I said, do you have something in the oven?"

"Right. No, I did. They're all done."

"Because you know, when I was about to go for a run, you started to say something about when I'm pregnant. Something in the oven, people like to call it."

He has a plate of cinnamon toast in his hand and almost drops it. "Kate. Listen, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's fine. It is. I'm not ready to have something in the oven yet. A couple of years from now, though." She drops her eyes and then looks back up, her voice lighter. "You gonna give me that toast before it gets cold?"

He thrusts the plate at her and turns around to the sink so she can't see that he has teared up. He takes two mugs from the cabinet and fills them with coffee, by which time he's brought his emotions under control. "Here you go," he says, and pushes the mug across the polished granite surface to her. Then he reaches into his jeans pocket, takes out his phone, and types something. "Done," he says, slipping it back and taking the stool next to hers.

"Done?"

"I just made a note for this date in 2014, when we can talk about what you said."

She smiles and squeezes his thigh. "So, you want to get the big tree for the living room today, don't you?"

"Yes. Mathias set some aside for me. He knows exactly what I like. I'm going down there at six."

She reaches for a piece of toast. "Why not go now, while it's light?"

"It's too crowded at this time on a Saturday. Plus I really like going there when it's dark. Very ethereal. I don't suppose—." He looks tentatively at her. "Would you like to come?"

"Sure. Sounds like fun."

Sounds like fun. Wow. Angel choirs are massed on the staircase. Bells are chiming. Carolers are at the door. Nat King Cole is at the piano, singing "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire." _She wants to pick out a tree with him._ "Good. I'm glad." He calls on all his self-discipline to sound calm, since he's in fact euphoric. Beside himself, elated, over the moon, ecstatic. "I've got some writing to do now, okay?"

"Okay. I'll put this stuff in the dishwasher. And then I'm meeting my dad and we're going to the Javits Center, remember?"

"Sorry, did you tell me? I forgot. The Javits Center? What for?"

"The annual baseball card convention, Castle, catch up. We're going to get some autographs. Dad's bringing the ball I caught at the first game he took me to. Nineteen eighty-seven. Big Dave fouled if off and I caught it. He's going to be there and I want to get it signed."

"Big Dave?"

"Dave Winfield, Castle! Dave Winfield. Six feet six. Right fielder for the Yankees. Hall of Famer."

"Got it," he says, pushing himself off the stool. "Don't forget to wear your Yankee shirt. And hat."

"Already on the bed so I can put them on. I'll be back by five."

It's just after sunset when she comes home. "Look, look, look!" she cries as she rushes in his office. "Big Dave signed the ball! And he even wrote 'To Kate. One of New York's Finest' on it, can you believe it?"

Castle looks over his laptop at her. "A Hall of Famer with excellent taste. You'd better put that away before it flies out the window or something."

"Are you kidding? I'm locking it in the safe."

"You want to change out of your Yankee gear into something warmer? It's almost time to get the tree."

"I'll be ready in ten minutes."

An hour later they're walking into the lot, each chewing a large, soft pretzel that they got from the vendor on the corner. "There he is," Castle says, pointing at his friend in the sky blue knitted hat.

"Wow, he's almost as tall as Big Dave."

When they reach him Castle makes the brief introductions. "Kate, I'd like you to meet Mathias. Mathias, Kate."

"God kveld," she says, extending her hand to the tree man.

"God kveld," he replies, shaking it and smiling widely. "Kan du Norsk?"

"Nei. Jeg snakker bare litt Norsk."

Castle is agape. "Geez, Kate. What are you, a mini UN? What did you just say?"

She shrugs shyly. "Just good evening. Then he asked if I speak Norwegian and I said no, only a little bit."

"You could have fooled me," Mathias says happily. "Your accent is almost perfect."

"She fools me all the time," Castle says. Kate surreptitiously elbows him, hard.

"Takk, Mathias. And since you're burning to know, Rick, I said 'thanks'."

"You're welcome. Are you two ready to pick out your tree?"

"You bet," Castle says. "I look forward to this all year."

They end up with a Frasier fir, just over ten feet tall, and secure it to the roof of the Mercedes with a series of bungee cords. Castle has a red flag to tie to the end of it. TREE ON BOARD.

"Really?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Had it since Alexis was three. Great, isn't it?" Castle pays Mathias and reminds him that he'll drive him to the airport first thing on Christmas Eve so that he can wake up on Christmas morning with his family in Ålesund.

Getting the tree upstairs in the freight elevator and then setting it up in the living room takes three men: Castle, the off-duty doorman and the porter, both of whom are well-paid for the work.

"Are we decorating this monster tonight?" Kate asks later, while they're having pasta and salad.

"No, no," Castle cautions, incautiously waving a forkful of rotelle. "You have to let the tree settle overnight. Let it get used to being indoors."

She wipes her mouth and sets her napkin neatly to the left of her plate. "So the evening is ours?"

"It is."

"Glad to hear it."

"You have plans?"

"I do." She runs her eyes up and down him. "My plans involve undecorating. A person. Specifically, you."

"You're singing my song," he says, dropping his own napkin on the table and standing up.

"And what song is that?" She's already partway to the bedroom.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll recognize it when you hear it. You're going to make me sing, aren't you?"

"I am. You coming, Castle?"

The instant they're in the room she has him up against the wall. "I'm going to undecorate you," she whispers, "one button at a time." The top of his shirt is already open, so she has only five to undo, stopping between each to kiss him, the kisses growing increasingly provocative. They're both breathing heavily. "One to go," she murmurs as she pulls his shirt off him. "The most important one." She pushes the metal button through the buttonhole at his waistband, unzips his Levi's and tugs them down his legs. He manages to step out of them and kick them aside, grateful that he's wearing neither socks nor shoes.

"My turn, Kate," he says, grabbing her hand and spinning her so she's now against the wall.

"Let me see your boxers first. I didn't get a chance this morning." She puts him at arm's length and grins when she reads the message on the bright red underwear. "IT'S CHRISTMAS. IT'S GOOD TO BE ELFISH!"

"Thank God you don't have any buttons," he says, running his hands under his soft jersey top. "Don't think I have enough self-control in reserve for that right now." He reaches around her back with one hand and unfastens her bra. "I'll just take care of this one little hook and eye."

Her bra joins his clothes and her shirt on the floor as Castle unties the drawstring on her pants, which are also soft jersey. "Oh, my," he says, sliding them off her with one hand while the other caresses a hip and then moves to the inside of her thigh. He continues to caress her, and when he moves to her pubic bone and strokes two fingers across her she moans. "Speaking of buttons, Kate," he says seductively, "I think this one is ready to go."

He's right, and so are his magic fingers, which tease and twist and flick and curl and press as she clenches around them. "Oh, God," she gasps against him several minutes later, "what a way to go, Castle. Can you carry me to the bed, please?"

"With pleasure," he says, scooping her up, then depositing her gently in the middle of their bed.

"C'm here," she says, pulling him down next her before rolling on top of him. "Time to finish undecorating you." She peels down his boxers and, with an assist from him, gets them all the way off. "Nothing elfish about this," she says, wrapping her hand around him. "Not elfish at all." She leans forward and slides slickly over him again and again, her nipples brushing his chest with each pass, until neither one can bear it any longer. In one fast, sleek move he's inside her, and they establish a hard, syncopated rhythm. Her heels are digging into the small of his back as she tries to drive him impossibly closer. When he lifts her ass just the right way to change the angle of his thrust, she comes violently and vocally and soon after so does he.

Eventually they recover. "Told you I'd get sweaty for you later," she says, her leg draped over his and her head on his chest.

"Totally worth the wait." He kisses her on the temple. "Are you humming?"

"Nope, singing."

"Singing? Whatcha singing?"

"Your song."

"My song?"

"Yeah, don't tell me you don't recognize it."

"Sing it a little louder."

She does.

"Aha! 'Jingle Bells'."

"Almost."

He moves so that he can look into her eyes. "What do you mean by almost?"

"Look under your pillow."

He has to roll over to do it, but he manages, and finds a small square package wrapped in tissue paper. "What's this?"

"You decorated a little tree for me, so I decorated a little something for you." She sits up, the sheets draped at her waist. "Aren't you going to open it?"

"I thought you said no presents."

"I repeat, you gave me a tree, so I'm giving you something. Besides, it's not so much a present as an addition to your holiday wardrobe. A decoration."

He tears the paper off and unfolds the shorts. "JINGLE BALLS!" He traces the red-and-green letters with the tip of his index finger.

"Told you it wasn't quite Jingle Bells."

"But this is my handwriting. This is amazing. And it's all hand-made. Who did this?"

"I did."

"You? You, Kate Beckett?"

"I, Kate Beckett, with my own hands."

"The same hands that a few minutes ago were—"

"I hope you're not going to say something indecorous, Castle. My Granny taught me how to embroider."

"She teach you the decorous art of forgery, too?"

"No, that was Mark, the grunge rocker. Don't tell my dad."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. But wait, I need to look at these more closely." He scoots over and turns on the bedside lamp. And then he starts to laugh.

"You like them?"

"I love them. Especially the accoutrements, the tiny jingle bells you sewed along the fly."

"I got those at a craft store around the corner. I don't think that was the manufacturer's intended use."

"Maybe not. But you know what? These are the best Christmas boxers of all time. And I should know. I have an unparalleled collection and it's now the Everest of collections." He kisses her in a manner befitting someone who has become the proud owner of Jingle Balls boxers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I think you'll probably be able to wear them only in here. Might get unwanted attention if your pants are jingling."

"Fine with me, Kate. And you know what?"

"What?"

"You can ring my bells anytime."

"I should hope so."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

You might as well deny a plant water. Tell a bird not to sing. Forbid a two-year-old to play. How long could they last? How long could he? This ban on Christmas presents is killing him. He'd agreed, reluctantly, but he can't help it. It's just not in him. She's been so great about the holiday, willing to take a chance on it, even spent hours decorating the big tree yesterday with him and his mother and Alexis. Not to mention the boxers she made, the ones he's going to wear to bed ever night and wash by hand every morning. And iron, of course. Maybe he could ask her if he could buy her just one present? How bad could that be? It's not really breaking the promise. Just one. Okay, it is breaking the promise. Kind of like saying you're a little bit pregnant. Oh, God. Pregnant. She'd said that. "Something in the oven." He checks his phone. Only 729 days until he gets to bring that up. Talk about it.

Presents. No presents. He can't do it. Can't not buy her something. He has a list; who knows how long everything on it will be available? Some of them might already be sold out, so he needs to get cracking. He can buy them now and give them to her later, on other holidays: Valentine's Day, Easter, Fourth of July, Hallowe'en. Her birthday! And then there's his favorite kind of gift, the NORP. The No Occasion Really Present, which can be bestowed any day, any time.

He smiles contentedly as he swivels in his office chair. It's all settled, then: it's time to shop. He's home today, writing, or supposed to be writing. If Kate is his muse, and she is, then shopping for her should count as inspiration, shouldn't it? Buying her things will mean that she is very much in his mind, and thus will inspire thoughts about Nikki. So in fact, he really is working! Why hadn't he ever realized this before?

After checking the list that's well-hidden on his laptop, he makes notes on all the things that he can buy on line. The Amazon boxes could be a problem, since they might set all her detective antennae quivering. If she asks, he'll offer a simple if untrue explanation: they're presents for his mother and Alexis. In fact, he's finished his shopping for both of them, but Kate doesn't know that. And anything he gets for her in a store in the city he'll hide in the storage locker in the basement. Problem solved. Maybe he'll write an hour before he goes out; he's feeling all kinds of inspired now.

It's funny, she thinks, as she taps her teeth with the eraser end of a pencil. She hates it when Castle is at home and not here, yet until quite recently she welcomed the days that he didn't come into the precinct. It gave her a break from the respecting-no-boundaries part of his personality, the know-it-all cockiness. It had taken her a long time to understand how much he had changed, and how much he had helped her to change. To soften, to take emotional risks, to make leaps of faith, to believe.

She regrets now that she'd told him no presents, made him promise. Over the past few weeks she's learned how much Castle loves Christmas. Really, really loves Christmas like no one she's ever known. He's the Earthly representation of Santa. And so she's breaking the promise; she's getting something for him to show him that she understands now. She's not going to tell him because then he'll feel obliged to hit every store from the Battery to Inwood Park—the entire length of Manhattan—for things for her. It won't be anything lavish; she can't compete with his bank account and she doesn't want to do something on a huge scale. She'll give it to him when they're alone, not with the rest of the family.

About ten days ago they'd been called to a crime scene on West 60th Street and when she'd gotten out of the car she'd noticed a gorgeous deep blue shirt in a window at the Time Warner Center. What was it? She closes her eyes and tries to visualize it. Bingo! Hugo Boss. Is it still there? Do they have his size? Calling during Christmas shopping madness is pointless; the store is a quick subway ride away, and she'll nip up there on the way home. Her shift ends at four, so she's ahead of the rush hour. There it is, the shirt, in baby-soft cotton and a perfect color for him.

She's paid for it, has the bag in her hand, and is halfway to the exit when she stops. A shirt? Really? What was she thinking? It's a beautiful shirt, but it's still a shirt. She's giving him a boring Father's Day present for Christmas. How exactly does that convey her joy and gratitude? For the first time in thirteen years she hasn't fallen into a pit of despondency in mid-November, hasn't turned her head away from every lighted tree or window and turned off the radio when Christmas music came on. For the first time in thirteen years she's actually enjoying all these things, and it's all thanks to Castle. He's never pushed her. He's been—and here's something she'd have thought impossible a few years ago—restrained.

Disheartened, she sits down on a bench outside. She presses a finger to the center of her chest, right over the scar from her bullet wound; she often does that, unconsciously, when she's anxious or nervous. Her fingernail catches on one of her coat buttons and something bubbles up in her brain. "Buttons!" she says, loudly enough to make people ten feet away turn around and stare. Buttons! That's all she needs, and she knows exactly where to find them. It's on the other side of town and the streets are packed, so she walks three blocks to take a subway that goes all the way to Queens. The last stop in Manhattan is very near the store she prays will be her shirt salvation.

The minute she opens the door of Tender Buttons, she's sure of herself again. The shop has every kind of button imaginable and unimaginable. Kate has an idea, but no idea if it's possible. She finds a saleswoman and asks. Yes, yes, it's more than possible, it's probable. Holding the shirt in one hand, she pokes through a box of buttons with the other. They have to be more or less the same size or they won't work. And there they are, even better than she'd ever hoped: eight brass buttons from an old NYPD cop's uniform. Not just any year, either, but 1912, exactly a century ago. She hums "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" in the subway, and gets out two stops away from home because she's just thought of a place that she's been meaning to drop in on all week.

"Hey, Castle," she calls as she hangs up her coat. When she sees him come out of his office and walk towards her, she holds up a plastic shopping bag. "I brought dinner."

"Ooh, thanks, I'm starving," he says. "What did you get?"

"Sit down right here and I'll serve it up."

"Yes, ma'am."

She takes two bowls from the cabinet, two spoons from the drawer, two napkins from the shelf, and hands them to Castle. "One for you. One for me."

"We having soup?" he asks, spoon already in hand.

"Nope."

She gets something else from a drawer, opens the bag, takes out a waxed-cardboard half-gallon container, and removes the lid. What she's holding is an ice cream scoop, and she uses it to give Castle an enormous helping and herself one about half the size.

"What's this?" he squeaks.

"Well, I figure if you can't eat chocolate-fudge-candy-cane ice cream for dinner the week before Christmas, when can you?"

"I didn't know there was such a thing." When he swallows his first spoonful he looks rapturous. "Omgd, wrdjfndt?"

"At a new place near Astor Place. There was a little squib about it in _Time Out_ last week."

He licks his lips. "Is that the issue that mysteriously disappeared before I had a chance to read it? The one you said you might accidentally have put in the recycling?"

"Got it in one, Castle. I wanted to surprise you. When you finish, do you want a salad?"

"God, no. This is my salad."

"Really? This is a salad?"

"Definitely. Cocoa is a plant, ergo this is a salad."

Sometimes she adores his logic. She smiles as he takes another spoonful. "Castle, you don't mind about my dad not coming for Christmas, do you? It's still a little much for him."

"No, I understand."

"I think next year he'll join us for sure."

"That'd be fantastic."

"He made some progress, too, you know? For the first time since mom died, he's not holing himself up in the cabin."

"So he's in town? Maybe he could come over the day after or something."

"Nope. He called me this afternoon to say that he's going ice fishing in Minnesota with his friend Herb."

"Herb? Who's that?"

"Friend from law school who practices in Minneapolis. His wife died a couple of years ago and his son is visiting his in-laws in Florida, so Dad's flying out there for six days. Herb lives on a lake and it's already frozen solid."

"You know, Kate, Christmas Eve's going to be a little different this year."

"Because I'm here."

"No, well, yes. But what I meant is that after dinner Mother is going Christmas caroling with some friends—which I'm guessing will involve significant amounts of egg nog—and Alexis is going skating with Max since he and his parents are leaving for London at the crack of dawn."

"Yeah, they told me." She puts down her spoon and slides her hand across the counter to take his. "Are you disappointed? I know how much that evening means to you."

"A little. But I've gotten over it." He puts his spoon down, too, and looks serious. "I really have you to thank for that, Kate."

"Me? Why?"

"Because I've watched how willing you've been to take on a lot of my Christmas craziness, and that means more to me than you'll ever know. So I've taken a cue from you and tried to compromise, adapt, meet you party way, whatever. Holiday evolution, I guess. And you're here, which makes it the best Christmas ever."

The lump in her throat prevents her from saying anything, but she squeezes his fingers and brings them to her lips for a soft kiss.

At nine on Christmas Eve, Alexis and Martha are getting ready to go out. They'd opened presents after dinner and there had been considerable oohing and ahing.

"I can't believe you persuaded Dad not to exchange gifts with you this year, Kate. It's kind of amazing."

"Wait 'ti next Christmas, sweetheart. She won't know what hit her."

"I'm prepared," Kate says.

"Nothing can really prepare you for The Full Richard Castle Christmas Experience, darling," Martha says, giving her a hug.

"You're right, but I'm building up to it. Have fun, you two."

"Yeah, and be home before Santa comes down the chimney."

"Right, Dad."

"Yes, dear. Toodle-oo, lovebirds."

And in flash of red (hair), the two of them are gone.

Not long after, when the lovebirds are sitting in front of the fire, Kate gets up.

"Where are you going? I was so cozy."

"I'll be right back. I have to give you something."

"What, a present?"

"Yeah, a present. I'll be right back."

When she's halfway across the room he calls. "But that wasn't our agreement!"

She ignores him and keeps walking to the bedroom, where the shirt is hidden in the back of her chest of drawers.

She's kidding. Must be. Kate promised. Ah, wait, he knows. It's not a real present, it's a gag gift. Something she didn't want to put in his stocking tomorrow and have anyone else see. Another pair of shorts, probably, although nothing could top the Jingle Balls one. "I didn't get you anything!" he shouts.

And she's back, just like that. "What do you mean you didn't get me a present?" she asks, eyes flashing in the firelight.

"You, you said not to." If she'll just let him explain, give him five minutes to run to the storage area and get everything. "That's what you said."

"Since when do you listen to me?"

"Since lately. A lot. Really a lot. All the time. Kate, I can—"

She throws herself down on the sofa next to him and giggles. "I'm just teasing you, Castle."

He'd been so distracted that he hadn't noticed that she's holding something behind her back. She puts a box, which is wrapped in shiny red paper and tied up in a green satin bow, on his lap.

"Here," she says bashfully. "It's a thank-you present, okay? To say thank you for giving Christmas back to me, Castle. That's the best thing I could ever have hoped for."

It's his turn to be choked up, so he unties the ribbon and unwraps the paper. "This is an incredible shirt, Kate. An amazing color. Thank you."

"I decorated it, did you notice?"

"Decorated it?"

"Yeah, I changed the buttons, see?"

The lights are low, so he reaches over and turns on a lamp on the end table and looks more closely at the shirt. "Oh. Oh. Oh, wow. These are old." He looks even closer. "Are they? I mean, are they real?"

"Yeah. Now you can dress like a cop from a hundred years ago, Castle. Those are from a 1912 New York City policeman's uniform. You may not have a badge, but you're a real cop to me."

That merits about ten minutes of kiss-and-cuddle. And then he whispers in her ear. "I might have gotten you something."

She pulls back. "You might, huh?"

"Yeah. At the last minute I couldn't help myself. I'm sorry. I went shopping but put it aside for Valentine's Day or Easter or something, so it's not like I really broke the promise."

"And where might this Valentine's present be?"

"In the storage unit in the basement."

"You going to go get it?"

"Well, it's not it, it's them, but shall I just bring one?"

"Yeah, just bring one."

No bovine at the receiving end of a cattle prod ever moved as quickly as he does, as he runs out the door on the way to the elevator. As soon as she's sure the coast is clear, she walks down one flight, picks something up from the neighbor, runs back upstairs and stashes the something in the bathroom. She's sitting casually on the sofa when Castle returns, bearing a good-sized box.

"Okay, this is the one I picked. It seems the most Christmasy. I hope you like it. Them."

"Them? I thought you said one present."

"Well, there's two in there but it's a pair, so it's really one."

She tears off the paper to find a pair of over-the-knee boots in bright red leather that's even softer than the cotton of his shirt. "Oh, Castle, they're gorgeous. I've never had boots this beautiful. And buttery. Thank you. Thank you." She pulls them on. "They're a perfect fit. Wow, I can't wait to wear them."

"You're wearing them right now."

"True, but I'm going to take them off for safe-keeping. Don't want to scratch them up."

"I think you're safe in here." He cocks his head and turns his head towards their room. "Speaking of scratching. Do you hear that?"

"Probably clanging in the pipes in the bathroom. This is an old building."

"Sounds like scratching to me."

"Tell you what, Castle. I'll go investigate. You stay here, in case it's something creepy. I know you don't like creepy things."

"I like weird things."

"Right. Different."

She disappears before he can do anything about it, but seconds later she's back, with a dog on the end of a leash. It's dancing around, and shaking its head. "Castle. Meet Noel. He's six months old and mostly Lab, but I think there could be a few other things swimming around in the gene pool."

"A dog? Are you dog-sitting?"

"No. Noel is yours. Ours, I hope, but I got him for you."

Castle looks as if he's just been knocked over by a kennelful of dogs. "You got me a dog?"

"I did. You can shake his paw. I taught him yesterday. He's really smart."

"You got me a dog?"

"I could tell how crushed you were you didn't get to keep Royal."

"You got me a dog." It seems to sink the third time around. "Hey, Noel," Castle says, suddenly looking like the world's only six-foot-two boy as he offers his hand to the puppy to shake. "I'm Castle. Rick. Dad. Where have you been, boy?"

"Until two days ago, at the pound. I adopted him. Ryan and Jenny kept him the first day and Mrs. Goodwin downstairs has had him since this morning."

By now Castle has buried his face in Noel's neck and is rolling on the floor with him. He looks up, beaming. "I've always wanted a dog, Kate. Always."

"I know. Merry Christmas."

TBC

 **A/N** By Castle's calendar tomorrow, November first, is the beginning of Christmas. One chapter to go. Thank you all!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer** : The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

It's Big Tree Day. Castle has gone down to get the car and Kate is sitting on the end of their bed. Oh, God, she says to herself, I hope I got the timing right. I hope he's okay with it. She's putting on a pair of Christmas socks—black and white with little black flippers at her ankle bones and a beak and eyes in between. She sticks one leg straight out and moves it up and down so that the flippers bounce. The penguin socks are her favorites and make her laugh even now, two years after she'd found them in her Christmas stocking.

It's hard to believe that it's been two years. She's been feeling sentimental about their first Christmas together for the last week. She hadn't opened a stocking since 1998 and had forgotten the fun of it. The penguin socks had been the first thing she'd seen, nestled next to a bar of soap in the shape of a snowflake. Every little thing in there had exemplified Castle's imagination, his understanding of her, his love. The last item, a small box in the toe of the stocking, had taken her by surprise. She remembers exactly how shocked she'd been when she had flipped up the lid and been nearly blinded by the sparkle of a magnificent pair of diamond and emerald earrings.

"Castle!" She'd gasped. "I said that everything in the stocking had to be ten dollars or less."

"Well, those cost ten followed by some zeros, and zeros stand for nothing. Therefore, those earrings—which, by the way, you're clutching as if you're afraid the dog is going to eat them—did not cost more than ten dollars."

Yes, sometimes it's still impossible to argue with his logic. She adores those earrings. She'd be wearing them now but they're not quite right with jeans, a green turtleneck and a red hoodie that's emblazoned with JUST SAY YES TO THE THIRTEENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS. She heads for the door and spies the dog, who is curled up on his big cushion in front of the fire.

"You been keeping an eye out for Santa, Noel?"

He opens his eyes and trots to her, wagging all over.

"Wanna go down and meet Dad?"

Wag, wag, wag.

"Wanna ride in the car?"

Pant, pant, pant.

She grabs his leash. "Okay, then, let's go."

Noel dances in place, his front paws tapping rhythmically.

"Good boy." She clips on his leash, gets into her coat, and the two ride down to the lobby. She sees Castle, who's in the car at the curb. "Up, Noel," she says, opening the back door so that he can jump in.

It's clear but dark—sunrise is still a way off—and they reach the tree lot in minutes. Mathias spots them before they've taken more than half a dozen steps and races over to fold Kate into a huge, woolly hug. "I hear you got married! Congratulations. Rick told me when he was here for the wreaths."

"Blabbermouth. I wanted us to tell you together."

"Couldn't help it, Kate," her husband confesses sheepishly.

"Did Rick tell you about the ring bearer?"

"The ring bearer?" Mathias looks a little puzzled. "What's that?"

"The person who carries the rings for the bride and groom before their vows. Lots of times it's a little kid. In our case," she leans over a bit to scratch Noel behind the ear, "it was our big shaggy kid here. The rings were tied to his collar with ribbons."

"You should have seen him, Mathias. Totally amazing performance. Never batted an eyelash even when a seagull stood right there in the middle of the aisle."

"A bird came to your wedding?"

"We got married outside," Kate explains. "By the ocean. The seagull was an uninvited guest. A yellow-legged wedding crasher."

"Well, I'm glad you two are an official couple now. It makes me really happy."

"Us, too," Castle says.

At six-thirty, with the giant balsam safely fixed to the roof and the TREE ON BOARD flag tied to the freshly-sawed trunk, the newlyweds and Noel are on their way home. They've driven about a block when Kate starts to sing, thrumming her fingers on the dashboard.

 _"Jingle balls, jingle balls,_  
 _Jingle all the way!"_

"Beckett, shh!"

"What? Why should I shh?"

"You shouldn't say things, sing things, like that in front of Noel. He's only two and a half."

She can't help snorting. "In dog years he's a teenager, Castle. I'm sure he's heard much worse at the dog run."

"You're probably right. There are some pretty rough pooches there."

Since the tree helpers aren't arriving for another 30 minutes, they're parked outside their building on Broome Street, waiting. "I'm freezing," Kate says. "I'm going around the corner to get us coffee, okay?"

"We'll be right here."

She returns with a cardboard tray holding two coffees and a blueberry muffin, and gives it Castle to hold while she settles in. He's got one of the cups in his hand and is halfway to his first sip when she yelps, "Wait! That's mine!"

"He's perplexed. "What's the difference? We have the same."

"No, we don't. I wanted something different today. Gimme."

"Let me try it. I might like it."

"No, you won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's, it's walnut and you hate walnut." Walnut? Walnut? She's mentally chastising herself. That's the best you could come up with? If he'd drunk it the jig would be up.

He's appalled. "They make coffee with walnut? That should be illegal."

"Yeah, well I like it once in a while."

"No accounting for taste," he says, wrinkling his nose as he passes the cup to her and takes the other from the tray. "I'm going to have to eat this whole muffin just to expunge the idea of walnut coffee from my mind."

"Be my guest. I got it for you."

"Thanks," he says, taking a large bite.

"Be careful waving it around like that. It's Noel's favorite."

The tree helpers arrive right on schedule. Kate and Noel take the passenger elevator to the loft while the three men wrestle the tree onto and then off of the freight elevator. The stand is already in position in the living room, and they manage to set up the towering fir after only a few false starts.

"Would you like to stay for breakfast?" Kate asks when they're through.

"Thanks, but no," says Sam, the off-duty doorman. "I should get home. Taking the kids to see Santa out at Roosevelt Field."

"And I start my shift in ten minutes, so I gotta get down to the basement," Richie, the handyman, says. "Thanks, though. Always a pleasure doing this."

"Thanks again for your help," Castle says, shaking hands with them and pressing money into their palms. "Couldn't do it without you."

He's silently rejoicing that they hadn't taken up her offer. He has to speak with her about something. "You want some breakfast, Kate?"

"Not really hungry."

"You should have a little something. You need to keep your strength up for tonight when we trim the tree. It'll be settled enough by then."

"Okay. Toast. Just want to put on my slippers. I'll be right back."

While she's in the bedroom he takes his phone out and checks the countdown clock that he'd installed so long ago. It's an unnecessary exercise, since he's known precisely how much time is left for months. He gets the coffee going and puts four slices of bread in the toaster. It's been 24 months. 104 weeks and two days. He's grateful that Leap Year hadn't occurred in this time period; the additional day—1,440 minutes—might have been his undoing.

The bread in the toaster pops up just as Kate returns and plops down on a kitchen stool. Déjà vu, he thinks. Except this same scene really had happened before, exactly two years ago. She's even sitting in the same place.

It hits him just as he picks up the plates: they'd had cinnamon toast that morning. He turns around, grabs the shaker, sprinkles a liberal amount of the spiced sugar, and sits on the stool next to her. Just as he had in 2012. He's a little nervous this time, too, and puts his phone between them.

"Do you remember that conversation we had a while ago?"

"Could you be a little more specific, Castle? How many conversations do you figure we have in a day? And when was this chat?"

"Two years ago. This date in 2012. We talked about, you know, something in the oven."

She looks coolly at him. "Didn't really talk about it."

"Right, right. True." Why is he sweating? "You said, well, kind of, that maybe in two years we could. You might be ready."

"Did I say that?"

His heart is contracting. Shriveling to the size of an infant's heart. The infant who he's been picturing for the last 17,520 hours. The infant who would be a perfect combination of their DNA. She's changed her mind. Or isn't ready. If she isn't ready, that's all right. But if she's changed her mind? His heart is now the size of a fetus's. "Yeah, you did."

She shrugs. "We could talk about it, I guess. But first I want to show you something."

What could she possibly show him that's more important than this conversation? He's not going to push, but. "Okay. Whatca got?" Even he knows he's seldom sounded this unconvincingly casual.

"I was thinking about saving this for your stocking," she says, drawing a little package out of her pocket. "It cost eight ninety-nine, so it's safely in the under-ten-dollar rule."

"I like that we kept that rule, Kate. It's a nice idea." Why is he commenting? He should just open the package and start talking about the possibility of kids.

"Would you rather I saved it?"

No, just give me the damn thing. Get this over with. "Oh, you know me, I never like to wait for anything."

"You waited more than three years for me. And you waited two years for that," she says, nodding her head at his phone and touching the screen with her fingertip. She smiles.

"Wait, whoa! You knew about? About, uh."

"The countdown clock? I'd be the world's worst detective if I didn't, Castle."

"Ha! You snooped."

"Did not. But you've checked it about ten times a day ever since you started it. About every half hour lately."

"Huh."

"So, you want to unwrap this? I just got it yesterday. I think you'll like it, even though it didn't cost ten dollars with a lot of zeros after it."

He unties the ribbon and unrolls the tissue paper to get to—. He can't believe it. His heart is swelling. It's huge. It's full. "Is this?"

"A pregnancy test? Yeah. I took it when you were getting the car this morning. It's positive, see?" She points to the little plus sign.

He lifts her out of her seat and kisses her as hard as he can. "Really? You're positive?"

"I'm positive. It's positive. That's why I had decaf this morning. Didn't want you to know yet. I really wanted to time this for your clock. How'd I do?"

She's leaning against him. He has one arm wrapped around her and is reaching for the phone with the other when it chimes, signaling the end of the countdown. It's the opening bars of "All I Want for Christmas Is You."

Kate laughs as she looks at him. "Well, you got me." She pats her stomach. "Us. You got us."

 **A/N** That's a wrap! Thanks to all of you who came along on the sleigh ride. BTW: Kate's penguin socks are real. I own a pair just like that.


End file.
